Neverwinter Forest and i sit on the curb 'cause it's the prettiest night
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Joining 
@Solharr @Callyope <3 making some assumptions, lmk if you'd like me to change!

she had heard rumor of this place. shadows crawled from the forest floor to the treetops, enveloping ranveigh in a chasm of darkness. the snow crunched beneath her feet.

the forest of vikings.

ranveigh paused, shook a dusting of white from off her shoulders and ran her tongue over her lips. who would greet her? would they allow her in? her head tipped back to send a note into the air, calling for what would perhaps, hopefully, be those just like her.
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the call split the cold air. sólhárr heard it, felt it settle deep in his chest like the weight of a challenge.

his ears flicked, golden eye narrowing as he stepped forward, broad chest pushing through the snow, leaving a path carved by his heavy frame. the forest of vikings did not welcome strangers easily. not without proof. not without purpose.

when he came upon her, he did not slow. who calls? his voice was low, rough as stone, laced with the weight of ownership. his claim here was absolute.

he stood tall before her, the full breadth of him cast in the dim light. scars wove stories across his dark fur, testaments to battles fought and won. the wind carried his scent—of frost and blood, of the north, of a man who did not yield.

this is not a place for wanderers, he stated, eyes sharp as he measured her. speak your purpose, or turn back.
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there was an answer. not just an answer, but an arrival.

a man, tall, carved from honey and burnt sienna. hej, hej, i come in peace, ranveigh croaked as her ears fell into a splay. my name is ranveigh. i am searching for a group. do you know them?

ranveigh stepped forward to get a better look at this man. he was handsome, even with his obvious scarring and gruffness, but he looked at her as if she would turn him to stone if she was near him for a bit too long. if nervous was a thing ranveigh could feel, she would have urinated on herself the moment he came forward.

i look for wolves of the north. my people. i hear there is a clan here, and i want to join them.
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chieftain stood firm.

broad chest puffed with the weight of his station. the cold wind pulled at his thick fur, but he did not waver, did not yield. his golden eye raked over the woman, assessing, measuring. she was not of forneskja, but she was northern in tongue and bearing.

do you speak my tongue? he asked first, voice deep and edged with something unreadable. a test, perhaps, or merely curiosity.

she spoke of a clan. the only clan here is forneskja, he continued, rolling the name over his tongue like a hammer striking steel. and it is my own.

there was no boast in his voice, only certainty. there were no others like them in these lands. not anymore.

he studied her again, gaze sharp. who were your people?
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ranveigh lit up. yes, she replied emphatically, i should be more excited that you speak mine!

i come from a band of northerners who lived by the sea, she straightened herself out some, standing taller but not aiming to threaten. halivaara. a small group. it's probably of no interest to you.

ranveigh was beginning to get nervous. this man, thus far, had shown no sign of enthusiasm about her presence, let alone granting her entry. she needed to think. her pulse fluttered in her chest so hard her ears began to ring.

what do you and your people need right now? ranveigh offered as a hail mary, her brows lifting in earnest hope. i am flexible. i can hunt, i can fish, i can protect, i can do a lot of things.
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sólhárr considered her, amber eye dark with thought. she was eager—perhaps too eager—but he did not sense deceit in her voice. still, trust was not given lightly in forneskja.

i need guards, he rumbled, standing tall, his broad chest expanding as he spoke. my wife he paused for a brief moment, jaw tightening. she is pregnant. i think.

his tail flicked, dismissing the uncertainty. it did not matter; if she was, she needed protection.

his gaze leveled on her, measuring. can you fight?

words were easy. action proved worth. he did not need another mouth to feed—he needed hands willing to bleed.

your name, he pressed, voice firm. if you are to stand in forneskja, i will know it.
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a pregnant wife.

ranveigh grew serious immediately, her gaze darkening and locking upon that of the one-eyed man. i'm more than capable. especially for a pregnant sister.

children were, sometimes, a weakness of ranveigh's. those big, bright eyes and toothy baby smiles, soft fur and milk breath; though she'd never truly yearned for any of her own, she considered it a duty to provide for those younger than her. instantly she connected with the idea of staying here, of being there for that woman. for her babies.

if only she could convince her husband.

arngeirrdottir, she says it like a salute, her lips tight. ranveigh arngeirrdottir.
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ranveigh arngeirrdottir, he echoed, tasting the weight of her name on his tongue.

i am sólhárr, hárkonungr of forneskja. his chest swelled as he spoke, voice edged with the authority of a man who had carved his claim into the land with tooth and claw.

my wife carries our future. i will not have weakness at our borders. his single, golden eye swept over her, measuring, weighing. if you can fight, then you will prove it.

his tail flicked once, a silent command. come. whether she stayed or not would be decided soon enough.
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sólhárr of forneskja. this was who she had been searching for.

ranveigh followed. a challenge was a challenge, but ranveigh was a woman who could take a spark and turn it into an explosion. blood thundered in her veins, a surge of endorphines crashing into her at full force.

she met sólhárr with the ferocity of a bear before she even engaged him, her enthusiasm for the craft evident in the way her muscles flexed beneath her skin and her nostrils flared.

come at me, sólhárr.
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the snow crunched beneath his paws, the cold air filling his lungs like a battle cry. he could feel her energy crackling beside him—ranveigh arngeirrdottir, a woman eager to prove herself. that was good. but eagerness meant nothing if it wasn’t honed, if it wasn’t tempered by skill.

he turned to face her, squaring his shoulders, his broad frame casting a long shadow over the frostbitten ground. his single golden eye raked over her, weighing her stance, the sharp readiness in the way she held herself. a wolf bred for battle, a fighter by nature, just as he was.

good.

his head dipped, just once. come at me.

it was not a jest. not a courtesy. it was a command.

his body tensed, bracing for her strike. show me what you are worth.
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bring it on.

ranveigh shot out like a bolt of lightning, forepaws splayed and prepared to lunge for sólhárr's shoulders. her jaws widened and slammed shut, just barely grazing his scarred cheek before she doubled back and aimed a real bite right for him.

she aimed to box him in, to corner him. to surprise him.
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sólhárr’s eye gleamed with approval, a flash of gold catching the light as ranveigh surged forward. her speed was impressive—bold, like the sea crashing against stone. he welcomed it.

she clipped his cheek, teeth brushing the scarred ridge there, but he did not flinch. instead, a low rumble built in his chest—satisfaction. she had spirit.

as she pivoted for her second strike, he shifted his weight, planting his forepaws firmly into the earth. when she snapped forward, he met her—shoulder bracing into her chest, aiming to knock her off balance.

good, he grunted, breath rough like gravel. but faster.

he pushed back, circling to keep her from the open ground, testing her instincts. his muscles coiled—ready, steady—inviting her next move.
join forneskja...

norse“ · common · “islenka
við erum öll undir sama himni.